


Just Drive

by emmabea



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4169613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmabea/pseuds/emmabea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a stranger suddenly hurls themselves into the passenger seat of his car late at night and yells "just drive!" Bucky thinks he's dreaming. And when he ends up on the couch watching TV with this guy till past 1AM, he's almost sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Drive

The clock says 11:46 and Bucky is sitting in his car. Well, it’s not his car, it’s Natasha’s, technically, but it doesn’t matter because it’s dark outside, and just about everyone is asleep by now, and Bucky doesn’t have to worry about someone he knows seeing him. The car seats smell like coffee and leather; it’s calm and he’s warm, with the heating turned all the way up and music blaring out of the speakers. Bucky isn’t really sure why he hasn’t gone home yet. Maybe he’s just scared that Natasha will be angry with him. He never came home the night before, which is probably a good reason for him to get a slap in the face and several reprimanding words. He was supposed to give the car back yesterday, but he didn't because he had another stupid one-night-stand, and left at six in the morning and drove around all day mindlessly. He’s honestly wondering why Nat hasn’t given up on him entirely at this point. Booze and girls doesn’t fix a damn thing, and despite her warnings, he just doesn’t stop. What kind of a friend does that make him?

All of that is forgotten when someone launches himself into the passenger seat of his car, slamming the door behind him, and shouts, “JUST DRIVE!”  
Without even thinking, Bucky slams his foot down on the gas pedal and the car shoots forward. The tires screech like an unexpected accompaniment to the still-loud radio. Thank god I drove the Jeeps in Afghanistan, he thinks as he makes turn after turn through the city. He glances at the man sitting beside him every chance he gets. He’s a big guy, buff, blonde-ish, wearing dark clothes and what appears to be something bulletproof underneath. The same adrenaline that pumped through him two years ago during the war pumps through him now, making his heart race.

“Where the hell are we going?” Bucky shouts. He hits his head on the window and curses when they make a U turn at a dead end before swerving down another dark street. Another car is following them. Not a surprise, considering how his new passenger made his entrance.

“I don’t know, you tell me!”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “That’s not my point! Where are you going – where do you want me to take you? Dude, you kinda explained nothing!” He notices blood beginning to stain the guy’s leg. Who the hell just jumped into my car?

“All you need to know is that we need to find some place safe, and soon, okay?” The man clenches his jaw and his expression tightens.  
“My apartment okay?” It sure as hell better be.

“Yeah, whatever. I think we just lost them, so just get there fast.”

Bucky sets his jaw and presses his foot down harder on the gas pedal. “You’re talkin’ like we’re trying to find a place for dinner, why the fuck’re you so casual about this? This is Brooklyn, not a fuckin’ war zone.” 

The man huffs in the seat next to him. “Just get us somewhere safe.”

Bucky pulls into the parking lot underneath his apartment and climbs out of the car, silently motioning for the other man to do the same.

The silence continues until they enter the stairwell and the door closes behind him, which is when Bucky roughly shoves the guy against the wall, and hisses, “You better have a great goddamn reason for this and an even better one if this gets me involved if you get yourself caught.”

The stranger is surprisingly calm and just keeps a straight face as he responds simply with, “I do. But the reason isn’t one that I can give to you. And I’d thank you for driving me, but you’re clearly past that.”

Bucky doesn’t let him go, just pushes harder. “You’ve told me nothing since you unceremoniously flung yourself into my car, so I’d appreciate a straight answer, you got me?”

“I’m Steve. And again, I can’t tell you.”

The hell am I supposed to do with this guy? “Can you at least tell me what I have to do from here? I just risked my life getting you to my goddamn house.”  
“I don’t know if they’ll find me, so I think it’s best to wait till morning. I can sleep outside your door if you really don’t want me in your apartment.”

Bucky relaxes his hold on Steve and sighs heavily. “Fine. But I’m not letting you sleep outside. I have a couch, you know.”

“You’re pretty calm about this.”

“I’m a veteran. Bucky, if you want. I was a sniper. I may have been a bit pissed that you didn’t explain, but I’m not gonna breathe down your neck.”

“I should’ve guessed. It’s a good thing I didn’t pick a random civilian’s car, huh?” Steve chuckles. The conversation bounces back and forth easily, like banter between two old friends.

“Well it’s not like you knew. Or like there was anyone else just sitting in their car in the middle of the night.”

“True.” Steve hasn’t broken eye contact yet, which is impressive. Bucky can’t say he’s done the same. “Are we gonna head upstairs yet?”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on.” I cannot fucking believe this guy, Bucky says to himself, running his fingers through his hair and trying to suppress an annoyed groan. Fucking “Steve”? That name sounds like a rich white CEO with three perfect kids and a Catholic wife, and this dude’s like, what, special ops? CIA? Who else would be followed by people like that? He fumbles with the keys to his apartment. Apartment 6B, a tiny little apartment with a minuscule bathroom, a sparsely furnished living room, and barely enough space for a kitchen. His bedroom has one barred window, of which his apartment has only two.  
Bucky holds open the door, lets Steve pass through, then slams it closed behind him. 

“Welcome to my mansion. Feel free to crash on the couch if you want. If you haven’t eaten, there’s probably something in the fridge. I’m not gonna sleep just yet. Just a few rules: don’t go in my room and don’t just leave. Also, I’m expecting a better explanation than before if you want me to treat you like I trust you. Which, by the way, I don’t.” He shoots Steve a glance as they enter the apartment and tosses his shoulder bag onto an armchair before going to the bathroom. He can hear the springs in the couch creak when Steve sits.

Sure enough, when Bucky returns, Steve is sitting on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped together. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed and his lips are almost pursed. Steve notices Bucky a split second after he enters, and acknowledges his presence with a nod.

“Thanks for letting me stay. I know it was kinda an asshole move. You know, to just jump into your car and tell you to start driving.” Steve lets out a wry laugh. “It’s like a goddamn action movie.”

“No shit,” Bucky says flatly. He walks over to the fridge and tosses Steve a bottle of water, knowing he’ll catch it. Steve’s found the TV remote and turns on the ancient boxy television in the corner. It’s on some dumb TLC show, but neither of them cares enough to switch it.

As they watch idly, Steve pulls a strip of fabric from his pocket and begins wrapping it around his leg, still bleeding as it had been in the car. Bucky raises his eyebrows.

“They shot at me. Just grazed; I’ll be fine.”

Bucky nods, knowing not to ask any further. They continue to watch TV.

The clock says 12:09AM. There’s a highly trained and apparently highly wanted stranger sitting on his couch right next to him. And he thought he was out of the water when he was shipped home two years ago. Not a chance, as it seems. But is he really surprised? Trouble seems to follow him wherever he goes. Natasha says that he seeks it out, sometimes in the form of bar fights, sometimes in the form of alcohol, and in many cases, both. Bucky knows that it’s true but denies it every time. The funding from the VA is minimal, but he takes what he can get and makes himself appear better than he really is to everyone other than Sam. Natasha just knows without asking, and even he can’t hide that he hasn’t been the same since he came back. Yeah, he fooled around with girls before he went overseas, but it had never been like this. And he didn’t tell anyone the half of it.

The clock says 12:38. Neither of them has moved. Neither of them wants to. Maybe Bucky was startled to find a man hurl himself into his car about an hour ago, but he’s long since gotten used to it. That’s what veterans like him have to do. Get used to things. Many can’t, but Bucky’s gotten used to a hell of a lot of strange things in his life, so this one is no different.

The clock says 12:52. Steve yawns, checks his phone, types out a message, turns it off, and turns his attention to Bucky. Bucky meets his gaze. Then they both turn back to the screen.

The clock says 1:14. Now Bucky sits up straighter, trying to keep his eyes open.

“You gonna tell me why you were being chased yet?”

“Yeah, if you want to get us both killed.”

Bucky sighs. “I’m pretty sure that only gang members slash drug dealers or someone in some sort of intelligence company or secret agency would say that. Which are you?”

Steve laughs. “Can you guess?”

“I hope you’re not the former. I’ve got a strict no-drug policy in this household.”

“But being in a car chase and having the guy that got you into it sleeping on your couch knowing it could mean both of our deaths is totally fine?”

“Just as long as the one who chased us isn’t bunking with us.”

Steve laughs, a real, full laugh, with his head thrown back and an open mouth, looking like the happiest, most beautiful person on the planet. “I like you, Buck. You got me. I regret to inform you that I am, in fact, a drug dealer.”

This time, it’s Bucky’s turn to laugh. “Okay, Agent.” Bucky gives Steve a mock salute and smiles. “Roger that.”

“Funny you say that, because my last name just so happens to be Rogers.”

“Agent Rogers, then. I suggest we get to bed. Breakfast is at 7:15, sharp. Don’t miss it, or you’ll get cold eggs and burnt coffee.”

“Sir yes sir, Private.”

“Why do you assume I’m a private?”

Steve shrugs. “Just the first thing that came to mind.”

“If you’re gonna rank me, rank me right. I’m Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Get some rest.”

And with that, Bucky switches of the TV, tosses Steve a pillow and blanket from the tiny linen closet, and they both head to bed. Or, in Steve’s case, the couch.  
The door to his bedroom still creaks when he opens it, no matter what he does. Once, Bucky kicked it down angrily and had the hinges replaced when he was in a better state of mind, but then he missed the old creak and never oiled the new hinges again to bring back that small familiarity. Now he smiles when he hears it, and closes the door gently behind him every time.

Bucky’s room, however bare it may appear to be, is the most personalized thing he has. He made the effort to paint one wall black and hang an old artsy-looking photo of the sea on it, just above the headboard of his deteriorating old bed, which has soft covers and a red quilt laid over it. The rest of the small room was plain, often strewn with clothes and books and the odd handgun or funny little trinket.

Today, Bucky skipped his usual routine of shoving the dirty laundry off of his bed or getting into more comfortable clothing from the dresser. He just stripped to his boxers and got under the covers, hoping to fall asleep quickly and avoid the avalanche of thoughts that was sure to arrive within moments. Steve this, Steve that, Steve, Steve, Steve. He just couldn’t stop thinking.

What a coincidence that a hot veteran decided the jump into his car. Bucky, the broken and torn up hero with an honorable discharge due to the loss of his left arm, then sewed back together again by the enemy and given a fantastic prosthetic, experimented on for a short while before he regained consciousness and escaped. Bucky, the one who was now addicted to adrenaline as if it would stop the horrible visions of his past and the possibility of relapse and the completely unnecessary added pressure of his questioning of his own sexuality. He doesn’t really know why he’s afraid to admit that maybe, maybe he’s attracted to more than just girls, but the apprehension, the anxiety, the fear, they’re still there. Maybe it’s because it’s one stress too many. Growing up poor, losing his parents and being in foster homes, going to the army, that was bad enough. 

And then some mysterious organization called S.H.E.I.L.D. just had to find out about his skills as a sniper and take him away after only a week of combat, stripping him of all everything but his official title. According to records, he was still Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, and those who knew him were told to pretend that he wasn’t replaced by someone new. And then he was put on secret missions as a backup sniper for what he was pretty sure were assassinations of important people, often terrorists or weapons dealers. That was the most he found out about the missions until they noticed that he was incredibly quiet and observant and then they sent Bucky in to rig the monitors and silent alarms and deactivate the suspect’s own security devices. Then he knew their names and birth dates and everything else about them from their marital history to the last time they walked their dog. But he never knew who his superiors were, or who S.H.E.I.L.D. really was, or anything beyond the fact that everyone he and his team was assigned to take out or spy on was dangerous and there wasn’t any doubting that. So he just opened the assignments delivered to him (always by a different messenger, always with a different return address, and always heavily coded) and followed orders. Simple. 

Of course, at first, it wasn’t simple at all, but a strange sort of routine fell in to place. There would be a few days of quiet, and Bucky and his team would enjoy a day or two resting in a hidden camp somewhere, and then a messenger would come around and they would all gear up, rig traps, monitor their subjects, and follow through. The cycle went on, and miraculously, they never lost anybody. The team was well-chosen thanks to the ever-mysterious S.H.I.E.L.D.  
And then, all of a sudden and without warning, that whole sense of almost-normalcy collapsed. The mission was going well, too well. Some guards had seen Bucky and fled, for reasons he could not comprehend. There was nobody behind him, and nobody in front. And then the floor disappeared from beneath him and the world went black.

That, truly, was the day that everything changed. No, not when he left for the army, not when he was “borrowed” by S.H.I.E.L.D., not even when he was suddenly actually a part of those dangerous missions. The day that everything changed was when everything was taken away from him.  
What he was told months later, after Bucky was rescued and recovering in a SHIELD-operated hospital, was that he was captured. He was given a thick manila folder labeled SERGEANT JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES in plain black Times New Roman and instructed to read through.

Capture (v): to take into one’s possession or control by force. Ex: the Russians captured 13,000 men.

Captured, oh no. Bucky grimly flipped page after page, bending the corners and feeling every miniscule bump in the paper as he took in the information.

No, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was not captured. He was cleverly, oh so cleverly, hunted. It was incredibly well thought-out. The opposing side’s intelligence force had learned of this mysteriously talented sniper and obviously wanted to find out more, and then to either take them down or bring them to the other side. So they found a way to lure them in to a base of theirs and create well-crafted false maps and hidden clues to lead the others away until the fateful moment that they caused a trap door to dump Bucky into a windowless cement room a long way below.

He had awoken a week later with blurred vision and a dull throbbing throughout his body beginning from his left shoulder. Voices murmured around him and he caught a glimpse of something riveted and shining and oddly familiar when he flexed his fingers before his face before he faded into the darkness again.  
This repeated for weeks on end, and every time he woke, Bucky gleaned more information. He pieced together a general picture. Somehow, he was in some place secret, being experimented on, tortured. His left arm was gone, replaced with a metal prosthetic, far beyond what any technology that Bucky had ever heard of being used. He could feel the new arm just as well as he had the old one, perhaps even more. The only difference was that pain was a different experience, more of a knowledge than a shock when something affected the metal surface.

No answers were procured from him, despite the long months of horrible electric shocks and brainwashing because somehow, something just froze inside of him, maybe as a side affect of that very first needle they stuck into his brain, or the strange things they did in his arm. Something made him go blank every time they asked him questions because he just couldn’t tell them anything, or everything would be lost. 

But Bucky didn’t remember much of this. Only the feeling, and a few moments of awareness in between the drugged stupors. Most of the information he got from SHIELD’s big file on him. He supposes it’s best that way, so as to keep the trauma to a low level, although enough damage had been done as it was. He had been told that he was lucky. His whole team survived, but they were told to never contact each other again. And, of course, there was the problem of the arm. Advanced cybernetics, with full sensory perception and strength, but rigged with thousands of traps by his captors. Bucky Barnes was sent home with an honorable discharge and given a new arm immediately upon arriving home after they analyzed the arm and recreated it without the alarm systems built in and lacking the red star which worked even better as it was designed by inventor Tony Stark himself. At least S.H.I.E.L.D. got him that.

So then Steve happened. Steve made him remember that even before all of that happened, Bucky had been poor and living in foster homes his whole life and in communities where being somebody like him, somebody not normal, someone who just liked people and not just girls. Somehow Steve was a combination of all of the things that excited him in one. Someone who made him question his sexuality, someone related to the military or secret organizations, someone who was probably as broken as he was.

The clock says 2:47AM. Bucky has been feeling sorry for himself and moping about some random guy for over an hour. What a mess, he thinks with a sigh. All it took was for one charming and infinitely intriguing (and annoyingly attractive)guy to unravel me. Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky.

Adrenaline seeking never solved these things. Of course, many veterans did what he did: drinking, going to clubs and having one night stands, doing drugs, generally being reckless and looking for physically adrenalizing things like sky diving or driving fast or climbing high things. Bucky mostly got himself drunk and lost until he passed out in a back alley. But of course, when Steve hopped into his car, it wasn’t just the chase that thrilled him, it was Steve himself. Bucky’s adrenaline was from connections with people, the connections that he lacked with everyone else around him except for perhaps Natasha and Sam. The girls were to fruitlessly try to make up for that disconnect, and the drinking was in despair at the failure. Bucky knows it’s not healthy, but he didn’t care. Or at least, that what he tells himself.

So maybe the fact that a connection seemed remotely possible here meant something. The easy back-and-forth conversation, the lack of awkwardness after sitting for hours together, couldn’t that be a possibility? It was such a small hope, but at this point, Bucky held onto anything he could find.

At that small thought, he went to sleep. Maybe, just maybe, this could turn out well.


End file.
